


Rowing

by drivingsideways



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Gen, Madi Scott Deserves The World, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 01:09:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11726379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drivingsideways/pseuds/drivingsideways
Summary: She had not said goodbye when she left the island. Not to her mother, or Kofi, or Amara or- anyone.





	Rowing

**Author's Note:**

> "This is my tale which I have told,  
> if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,  
> take somewhere else and let some return to me,  
> This story ends with me still rowing."  
> \- "Rowing", Anne Sexton

 

She had not said goodbye when she left the island. Not to her mother, or Kofi, or Amara or- anyone.

 

*

On her way to the Underhill estate, she passes the burnt-out husks of houses, weeds growing green, wild and strong amongst the debris of stone and mortar. Broken fences. Scorched earth where sugar cane might have swayed in the breeze blowing inland, twisting her skirts around her legs.  

A man and woman are hammering a door into place. In the small yard, two young children are engrossed in a game that seems to involve sticks converted into swords. “Surrender!” yells the taller, dark haired girl, “or I will gut your innards and use them to hang your bodies over the harbor!”

“Nevvvvvv--eeeeer!” screams the shorter one, planting her feet wide, raising her sword high.  “I am Captain Flint and storms cannot kill me nor God, I spit on your empty threats Englishman!”

The battle is joined with ear splitting cries.

The man turns in their direction, probably to quell the noise. He raises a hand to cover his eyes against the sun, when he sees her, but does not call out a greeting.

Madi walks on.

There’s a house-three of its walls remain, its roof entirely caved in, windows gaping holes.

She does not pause to look at it.

[ _Do you think it possible to be happy, Eleanor had asked, to live in isolation, if it was with the one you loved and who loved you back?]_

A cart laden with vegetables, the tired looking horse shuffling, its rider’s face half hidden by their enormous hat. The horse and rider ignore her. She knows it is a two day walk inland. She had avoided the town-in any case, she had no money to hire a horse or a cart. She is in no hurry: a day or three, it does not make a difference. There is nobody waiting for her, not here.

Going to the Underhill estate is a risk, she knows. Though the treaty has been in effect for three months now, and tempers have calmed, the tensions that simmer under the surface are slow to disappear. Every now and then, there is a brawl, a fight, a quick arrest before it turns into something else, something _bigger_.

Trouble makers are not welcome.

Truth be told, she doesn’t know why she is on this path. Ruth had stayed on the Underhill Estate, Julius had told her. Not all the ones who’d left had returned.

But Ruth had never left.

*

They recognize her at the gate- what remains of the gate.

One of the men approaches her as she waits. “What do you want?” he asks, and he does not meet her eyes, looking at some point over her left shoulder instead.

“I would like to meet with Ruth” she says quietly.

He looks to the side, bites his lip, and then meets her eyes, his brows creased in a frown.

“Wait here” he says finally.

The other men return to their tasks- shoveling, hauling- ignoring her.

She notices that there are no white overseers among them.

She sees Ruth approaching in the distance, a young girl clinging to her hand. Mr. Underhill’s daughter, she surmises.

“Madi”, Ruth says, her stern face softening slightly into half a smile. “You’ve come alone?”

Madi nods.

The girl stares up at her, and then attempts to hide her face in Ruth’s skirts.

“Anne” chides Ruth gently, “stop that, child.”

Ruth reaches out to touch her elbow. “This way” she says, leading Madi toward the house.

The kitchen may be the largest room that Madi has ever seen. She blinks, adjusting to the dimming of the light. It is cool here, despite the wide windows set in the white walls. There are four other women-young girls- each busy with some task – chopping, cleaning, stirring a pot from which a delicious aroma rises.

Madi’s stomach rumbles, making her flush. It has been almost twenty hours since her last meal: the last of the loaf of bread she had carried with her from the island, wrapped in a scarf.

“Esme” says Ruth, raising her voice slightly, “Bring some of that cheese, and that bread left from the breakfast.”

She indicates that Madi should sit at the wide wooden table, three fourths of it covered with produce and herbs of different kinds.

A plucked chicken stares at her with its dead eyes.

The child-Anne- has skipped away to where one of the girls is stirring the soup. She tugs at her apron until the girl ladles out a spoon, blowing on it to cool it so it won’t burn her tongue, and allows her a taste.

Ruth is carving her a slice of the cheese. “Eat first” she says, “then we will talk.”

Madi doesn’t pretend that she isn’t relieved, gulping down the bread and cheese with little grace, and swallowing the mug of water placed beside her plate.

Ruth watches her, her expression inscrutable.

When she’s swallowed the last bite and wiped her mouth, Ruth asks, direct as always, “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see you”, Madi says. “I’m-not sure why. It isn’t- I am not here to- “

“Start a war?” Ruth says, dry.   

Madi looks away quickly and then back at her, meeting her eyes.

“You know I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.” She says, quiet.

“Not alone, you can’t” agrees Ruth, and the bareness of it, stated like that, slices at her afresh.

“You didn’t come to the island” she says, “even when the others did. You stayed here.”

It’s a question, and not.

Ruth sighs, and looks down at her palms, which she turns over. Her hands are scarred in streaks- as though something incredibly hot had seared her skin. The scars are old, slightly raised, the edges almost, but not quite melting into the skin around them.

“I have lived too long” she offers, as though that is an explanation.

Perhaps it is.

Perhaps this is the only answer she will get.

After the first shock, after Silver had left the hut- after she had sent him away- she had cried.

Wept and howled, not caring who heard her.

Wept until her tears were just huge gasps of breath.

Eventually, she had stopped.

She’d cried again, over the weeks.

 But softer, in the quiet of the night, curling in on herself, silent as she could be. There was no part of her that she wanted to give, again.

Not even a breath of her grief for _them_ to comfort.

But sitting here, in this kitchen with its white walls and abundance of food- more food here for one meal than many of her fellow islanders will see in a week- sitting here opposite this woman, with her knowing eyes, and scarred hands, she feels undone, feels the tears come unbidden to her eyes.

Beneath the table she digs her nails into her palms.

“What will you do?” Ruth asks, and it’s not unkindly meant, she knows.

She shakes her head, unable to trust her voice. After a moment, she manages, “I’m not sure yet.”

“Perhaps, “Ruth hesitates, “You might see Madame Max.”

Madi stares at her.

“They say she- owns almost all the business in the town. They say she-pays a fair wage.”

Madi looks down at her hands.

_A fair wage_.

The words ricochet around her head.

I was raised to be a Queen, she wants to say.

But she isn’t a Queen.

She isn’t-anybody.

“Thank you for the food” she says, instead.

*

She finds a tree to sleep under, hidden from the road. The ground is hard beneath her, but she is too exhausted to care. The gnarled trunk digs into her back. It’s a still night: the sun had gone down in a blaze of orange and indigo a while ago, and now a sickle moon casts a pale light onto the earth, shining down from a star-drenched sky. When she was ten, her father had taught her the constellations: she’d had to draw them in a book, ink scratching over paper-precious paper-because she had trouble remembering them. Even now, she didn’t think she could pick them all out correctly. _And that’s the Pole Star,_ he’d said, pointing. “ _It will always guide you true North_.”

It winks down at her now, distant and blue.

She was never, she thought, going to make a good sailor.

There are men who talk to the stars, she knows. They ask questions and divine their answers from their paths.

Perhaps they only pretend that the stars answer them; perhaps the starlight only reveals what is concealed within, at the right moment.

Perhaps that moment has passed her by without her noticing it.

*

It is not Madame Max she seeks out, when she reaches the town.

In the streets, there is the bustle and crowd of daily life- here a man haggles over a cut of meat, there a young woman with long blonde hair holds up a trinket and giggles with her friend-as though, she thinks, nothing had ever happened here.

Oh, she can see the remnants of the Spanish invasion- the occasional torn down sign that dangles from a shop that is uninhabited, a pile of stones that might have been a building once, neatly stacked to the side, waiting for someone to cart it away and perhaps, reuse -but on these faces, in these voices- no traces are left she thinks; if their laughter is louder than before, if their voices are raised more often, it is perhaps to say- we are here, we survived it, we look to the future.

The tavern is crowded, and it is only approaching mid-day. Her entrance causes no ripple- eyes appraise her quickly, and then look away, just as quickly. There is no pause in the raucous conversations being carried on at various tables. Toward the tables at the back, she sees Eme, smiling, pouring some wine as she chats with a customer.

Madi moves toward the side, near the bar, suddenly unsure. Eme glances up then, and even across the room, Madi can see the slight stiffening of her shoulders as she realizes who has just walked into the tavern. But then she smiles, and tilts her head toward a door to the left- the kitchen, presumably.

Kitchens, Madi thinks wryly, seem to be the only place she’s fit for.

Eme waits for her by the door, and smiles at her when she reaches her side- a genuine smile, with warmth.

Madi releases the breath she’s been holding.

“I wondered when I’d see you” she says, as she ushers Madi in, sets the jug down on the broad table that covers almost three quarters of the kitchen.

“You were expecting me?” asks Madi, startled into surprise, because _she_ hadn’t known that she was coming here.

Eme smiles at her, something knowing in it: “I didn’t think you would- want to remain there- after- after what happened.”

“No,” she acknowledges, “I could not.”

“Let me get you something to eat” says Eme.

“I don’t want to interrupt your work” demurs Madi, suddenly conscious of being- an interloper.

Eme rolls her eyes, “This is my work” she says, “keeping people fed.”

Madi can’t help chuckle.

Eme leaves her with some bread and soup- _good_ soup, thinks Madi, gratefully- and goes back into the dining area.

When she comes back, Madi is scooping the last mouthful.

“This was good- very good” she says, “Thank you.”

Eme nods, but says nothing, looking at her, a bit quizzical.

“It seems” Madi says, “I need work.”

“What did you have in mind?” Eme asks, quietly.

Madi shrugs, a little helplessly. “I can cook,” she says, “though perhaps not very well. I can learn.”

Eme raises her eyebrows a bit, “Is that all?”

Madi retorts, stung, “I’m not aware if this town has a library that would hire a literate slave woman to look after their books”.

Eme makes a placatory gesture. “I only meant- “she starts, then stops. “You are not a slave” she says, “Neither am I.”

Madi bites down on the sudden anger she feels rising hot and searing in her chest.

“I can sew, “she says, instead. “I can dig a well. I can stitch a wound, and I can keep books.”

She holds Eme’s gaze.

“I can wield a gun.”

Eme sits beside her, back to the table, shoulder touching hers, and turns her head slightly toward her.

 “I killed a man once”.

“Eme”, she says, unsure, ashamed.

Madi feels sweat bead its way down her spine; her skirt sticks to her thighs where she sits on the bench. This kitchen is hot, with the sun and the large fire in the grate.

“I do not regret it”, Eme continues, “if that’s what you’re wondering. It was kill or be killed-it was— “

She pauses, “He was going to kill your father. On the Andromache.”

Madi swallows, her throat closing around- what was there to say?

“I do not regret it, but I will always remember it.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?” Eme asks. 

“No”, she admits, remembers the heaviness of the gun Silver had handed her, how the metal had warmed as she clutched it, waiting, waiting.

Eme nods.

“I will speak to Miss Max” she says, “It will be alright.”

 

*

Madame Max sits in a high-backed chair, behind a large desk, away from the window.

She’s stunningly beautiful, is Madi’s first, somewhat surprised thought.

“Miss Scott”, she says, “Eme tells me you are looking for work.”

She has not offered Madi a seat.

“Yes,” she says, “I’m in need of a job.”

“I find that difficult to believe” says Madame Max, laying a be-ringed hand on the desk. “You are- “she pauses, “the heir in waiting, are you not?”.

“People are leaving the island” she replies quietly, “as you well know. There will be no need for a Queen.”

“Will there not?” she asks, and there’s something- satisfied- about her smile, that itches under Madi’s skin.

She says nothing.

This too, she thinks, is hers to learn.

This silence.

Madame Max rises from her chair, walks to the side board and pours herself a glass.

She does not offer Madi one.

“Eme tells me that you can read and write.”

Madi nods.

“Well?” she asks.

“In three languages” Madi cannot help but retort.

The satisfaction in the curve of the Madame’s lips, that makes her grit her teeth.

“We are always shorthanded in the kitchen” she says, “and in the brothel.”

Madi’s eyes flash to hers, but she keeps her face as impassive as she can.

After a pause, she says, “But as luck would have it, I find myself in need of a book keeper.”

“I will have Jacob show you around and explain what is needed” she adds, settling back into her chair, “And later in the evening we can review what you have learnt.” 

“Eme” she calls, and Eme who has been waiting outside, apparently, slips in. “Send for Jacob. Let me introduce him to the woman who’s going to take the job he seems unable to perform with any degree of competency.”

She retreats behind the desk again, and starts looking over some books.

Madi remains standing.

 

*

She shares a room with Eme: a small room, on the top floor of the tavern.  Miss Guthrie had arranged it for her, she tells Madi, and Miss Max had allowed her to continue. Eme is the only one who calls her Miss Max, everyone else calls her Madame. There is only one bed, but Eme has secured another mattress- a clean one, she promises- for Madi, which they put on the floor. Between the bed, the tiny closet and the mattress, there is not much room left. “Miss Max has said I’m to help you get clothes” says Eme, yawning, that first night. “She will deduct it in instalments from your wages. Until then, I’ll try and find you something from the girls across the street.”

Madi learns quickly: it is not a complicated system. At the end of the week, Madame Max looks over her work, and nods. She has hardly exchanged two words with Madi since that first meeting, but today she says, “Have you settled in?”

Madi pauses on her way out, and turns, a little wary.

“Eme is very kind” she replies, “and I believe I understand the work well enough.”

Madame nods, clearly a dismissal.

Madame Max may not say anything much to her, but Madi _knows_ that she watches her. She can feel her eyes on her, when they cross paths, and she suspects that Eme-and others- provide reports to her. Madame herself is busy most of the time, locked behind the doors of her office, where she arrives early in the morning, and stays until late. She makes it a point to mingle with the patrons: after two weeks, Madi figures out the patterns of these visits; notes the people she pays special attention to.

_Governor_ _Featherstone_ is a regular visitor, as is his wife. Mrs. Featherstone had stopped by the kitchen one day- Madi suspects it was deliberately timed to ensued that she would be there too- and feigns surprise at seeing her. “Max told me that you were working here now” she says, airy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Scott.”

“Thank you, ma’am” she says quietly, and is surprised when Mrs. Featherstone laughs a little. “You can call me Idelle” she says, and then in a slightly wistful tone, adds, “Mrs. Featherstone sounds like someone who would curdle milk”.

Madi is charmed, despite herself, and finds herself saying, “If you wish, and please call me Madi.”

  _Remember who these people are_ , she tells herself that night, fiercely, _remember what they have cost you_.

 

It becomes easier to remember the day, four months after her arrival, that Jack Rackham walks into the tavern.

She’s just exiting from Madame’s office when he bounds up the stairs- and comes to a startled halt when he sees her.

“Miss Scott” he says, and she almost enjoys the gob smacked expression, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m the accountant” she says, calmly. “If you will excuse me,” she adds, “I have things to do.”

 

Later that night, Eme tells her that there had been a fierce row in Madame’s office. Captain Rackham had, not unexpectedly, been furious that Madame had hired “the woman who was ready to die for a war that we just about managed to avert for fucks sake what are you even thinking” but Madame, apparently, had made it clear just where Captain Rackham could shove his opinions about her hiring practices. Eme laughed, “I bet he’s sleeping on the couch tonight”. Madi looks at her in surprise- she has seen Madame with some of the women from across the street- it did not look as though her tastes ran to men, _at all_. And earlier today Anne Bonny had walked into the tavern, and then the door to the office had been shut _for a long time_. Eme’s smile turns a little wry, but also a little fond, Madi notices, as she says, “Don’t ask me, I don’t quite understand how the three of them manage to work it, either-but they do.”

The next day, Madame summons her.

Madi stands as she always has, quietly, in front of the desk, until she is given permission to sit.

To her surprise, what Madame says is, “You were with Eleanor, were you not? When she was killed?”

Taken aback, she nods. Madame seems to be waiting for more.

“She fought fiercely,” she says, “and I know she tried her best to save me.”

For the first time since she’s met her, Madame’s expression shows something-close to vulnerability.

“I looked for her, every place I could think of” she says, “but I couldn’t find her in time.”

It occurs to Madi then, that, in the end, she had known so _little_ of Eleanor.

“We hadn’t seen each other in years- since our childhood” she finds herself saying, “We hardly knew each other. Yet- she- “

Madame rises abruptly from her desk, and goes to the window, so that Madi can’t see her face anymore.

After a moment, she says, her voice steady, “Eleanor didn’t know the difference between brave and foolhardy”

“For which I am grateful” Madi replies, quietly.

Madame whirls around then, and Madi is surprised at the fury in her face.

“She’s _dead!”_ she says, her voice rising, “ _Dead_ because you and Captain Flint thought a war was the most important thing in the world.”

Madi feels her face harden. “She’s dead because her husband thought his pride was more important than true justice” she snaps back.

Madame shakes her head. “You” she says, “still understand _nothing_. Do you know what you have _cost_ us, what more you would have _taken_ from us, you and Flint, if you hadn’t been stopped?”

Madi finds she cannot breathe, almost.

“I understand. “she says, and it surprises her, how steady her voice comes out. “I understand what was taken, and I understand what will _continue_ to be taken. I understand that you think you have _won_ because now _you_ are doing the taking. You think you are building something here, that will last, that will not be taken from you. That you will be Queen here for the rest of your life. That they will not discard you the moment you outlive your usefulness. But-” she chokes here, “as you have evidence right in front of you, you are _wrong_.”

“Get out.” Madame says, equally quietly. “Stay out of my sight.”

 

*

She’s unsure if she still has a job, but in the evening, Madame calls her to look over the books, as usual.

When they are done, she says. “Miss Scott” and then nothing for a moment.

Then she walks to the side board and pours out two glasses, offers her one.

They sip the wine in silence, for a minute.

“I do know” she says. “I do know that it will not last. That one day, this shifting sand of an island will wash away under my feet.”

She smiles, and there’s a melancholy in her eyes that Madi feels-

“I thought I had made better choices than Eleanor. That I had learnt, from her mistakes. But now I realize, that in me, there is the same thing that was in her- an inability to change, in some ways. Oh, I adapt- to whatever life throws my way- I _survive_. I live, tell myself, it is to fight another day. That it is all, at the end, I am required to do: to ensure that I see another sunrise. Do you- “she looks at Madi directly- “ _can_ you-understand that?”

When Madi does not answer, she doesn’t say anything further, just nods.

“Please tell Eme that I will have supper in the office today.”

Madi nods, and lets herself out.

 

*

That night, for the first time, she dreams of John Silver.

He stands on a cliff, looking out toward the sea.

Hearing her approach, he turns toward her, but, she realizes, he’s not looking at her but somewhere behind her.

Is it over? He asks, “Is it done?”

There’s a gunshot.

She whirls around, her heart pounding, but there’s nobody.

When she turns around again, Silver is gone.

 

*

The next evening, after they are done, Madame pours out a glass again.

It’s Madi who breaks the silence this time.

“My father” she begins, “stole whatever books he could. From the cargo that the pirates brought in. Among other things. Everything he stole was for our survival, for our people. But the books, those were for _me_. He wanted to- prepare me, for this world, the world he had hidden me from, but that he knew I would someday have to enter. So, he brought me its stories: its knights and queens, its wars and wanderers, its philosophers and fools.”

She falls silent.

“And did it help?”

“It made me- “she replies, “determined to write my own story.”

*

And so it goes: every evening, after they finish going through the books- Max- for she had become Max after the first five days- pours them a drink, and they talk. It is not always about the past, or the war-sometimes it is just about the things that happened that day; the news from Port Royal, from London. Sometimes, they talk of Eleanor.

Max is quiet, those evenings.

Once, she says, “When I-parted ways with Eleanor-I thought, never again. That I would never leave myself open to such hurt again. That if I fell in love again, it would not be like it was with her, where she consumed me, where every hope and dream I had included her. I was determined-to not repeat my mistake.”

“But you fell in love again” Madi says, questioning.

Max laughs a little, “You could say I was dragged there at knife-point”.

“It was-is- both-easier-and harder-with Anne. I- “she stops, then continues, “I did some things which I thought she might never forgive me for. Before that, I had been on the side where I held the power of forgiveness-not over Anne, over Eleanor, I mean. But now, here I was on the other side- wanting, waiting, _hoping_. And that’s when I knew I had not learnt anything at all, after all. Because I knew I would wait-forever-if it came to that-for her.”

Madi looks away.

Max says-gently, for her- “You have someone waiting for you, I think.”

When Madi doesn’t reply, she fills her glass again.

 

*

One night, she dreams of Captain Flint.

It’s a forest, it is night.

She can only see him in silhouette, by the light of a lantern by his side.

He is digging a hole, she sees, and there’s a chest next to him.

“Captain” she calls, but he doesn’t hear her. She calls again, louder, “Captain Flint!”

He keeps digging.

She draws nearer, approaching from his side. He does not look up, even when she’s just an arm’s length away.

The thwack-thwack of the shovel is unnaturally loud.

“Captain” she says, again, and reaches out to touch his shoulder. “ _James_.”

He looks at her then, and she drops her hand in horror: because it’s not his face, but a skull, maggots and worms creeping through empty sockets- he opens his mouth and slime dribbles through- she screams, stumbles backward, but he’s coming toward her now, Madi, he calls, _Madi_.

She sits up in bed, her heart pounding.

 

*

It is seven months since she’s left the island, when Kofi comes for her.

“How did you know where to find me?” she asks.

He looks at her steadily, and says, “This is not a town where you can keep secrets.”

“So my mother knows- “

“-that you are working for Madame Max? Yes.”

“I cannot come back, Kofi” she says.

“How is this better?” he argues, “Working here-and for- _her_?”

It is not a question she has an answer to, yet, except that she knows, that somehow, it is.

“Is my mother well?” she asks instead of replying.

Kofi looks away. “She misses her daughter” he says, “It is eating her away, inside.”

“I cannot come back” she says, again.

“He’s no longer there, you know.” Kofi says, “He left two months ago.”

She should be relieved, she thinks, she should feel satisfaction.

Instead, what she feels threatens to leave her breathless and gasping.

She takes a deep, steadying breath.

“I will return when I am ready. Please- please tell my mother that-I think of her, every day.”

 

*

  

Eme says, “Kofi was upset that you didn’t return with him.”

“I know”, she replies, “but it’s not time yet.”

 

*

It takes a few days before she feels she can broach the subject with Max.

“Do you know where he’s gone?” she asks Max.

Max shakes her head, “I can find out,” she says, “if you wish.”

“There are things I need to say to him” she replies, “so I would be very grateful- “

Max waves a hand.

“Gratitude” she says, then shows an uncharacteristic hesitation- “is not something I want from-friends.”

There’s a tentativeness to the end of that sentence, and Madi is surprised how easy it is for her, after all, to reply, with as much warmth as she feels, “You have it anyway, along with my friendship.”

Max’ answering smile warms her heart.

 

*

It takes Max all of two days to find Long John Silver.

“Do you know what you will say to him?” she asks Madi.

“Not quite” she says, “Not yet.”

“Eleanor trusted him,” Max says, and when Madi looks at her in surprise, she says, “Not Silver. Captain Flint. I didn’t understand why- never understood why. To me he always seemed-a little- “

“- mad?” Madi finishes, for her. “His was the kind of madness that saw the world as it could be” she adds, an ache in her chest, and in her mind’s eye, she sees him as she had on that day, when she’d emerged from the holds of the ship, to see him standing on the deck, hands behind his back, frowning at her-

She swallows the lump in her throat.

“I can -perhaps-forgive - John his lies to me”, she says, “But what he did to Captain Flint- “

“You think he killed him?” Max says, genuine surprise in her voice.

“Captain Flint would _never_ walk away from this, he would _never-_ not even for-for the reason that Silver said he did.”

“How are you so sure?” Max asks, her voice quiet. “He was alone and without hope of victory. He could have just walked away from it all. He could have decided to-live.”

Madi finds that she is crying, and she swipes impatiently at her cheeks.

“Stories,” she says, “are powerful things. And Silver told me the story that he thought would be most palatable, the one he thought would make it so that I would walk away. But I know, I _know_ – that he killed Captain Flint on that island- and then spun me a tale of a plantation- “

Max stirs in her chair. “A plantation?” she asks, her voice sharp.

Madi nods. “In Savannah. Where- “she hesitates- but Max, of all people, she thinks-would understand. “Where the great love of his life has been imprisoned these many years. Silver told me that Flint traded the war for a chance to be with Thomas Hamilton. I cannot-I cannot believe it to be true- that it would be possible that Thomas Hamilton is still alive-has been alive all these years-imprisoned-and if that isn’t true, there is only one possible reason that Captain Flint didn’t return from Skeleton Island, and that’s because he’s dead, and John killed him to- “

“-to keep you alive.” Max says.

“He had no right” says Madi, “he had _no right_.”

Max takes a deep breath, and walks to the window.

“But there-there were other people, surely, who could corroborate Silver’s story- “

Madi scoffs. “Israel Hands would swear that black was white, for Silver. And so would the others.”

Max says “Madi”, and then stops.

“What is it?” she asks, because something in Max’ face has her heart beating faster. “Tell me.”

“It was me who mentioned the plantation in Savannah, to Silver.”

“What?”

“I- I found out about it- but I didn’t know who was imprisoned there- I only knew it was unwanted sons of rich families- “

Madi, finds her knees trembling so badly, she can hardly stand. “You mean, there is, really, a plantation in Savannah?”

Max nods.

“ _Madi_.” She says again, and she is afraid, Madi can tell.

She doesn’t care- because Captain Flint- _James_ \- has been alive and _imprisoned-_ all these _months_ \- while she- while she-

“I am going” she says, “to meet John Silver.”

 

*

She finds him in a tavern in Port Royal, exactly where Max said he would be.

“Madi”, he chokes, when he sees her, and struggles to his feet. There’s a half empty bottle of rum on the table, but he doesn’t look drunk- though there’s a shine to his eyes, and his hands clench and unclench nervously on the crutch.

John looks at her with naked hope.

She sits down in the chair opposite his and looks him in the eye.

“I have come” she says, “to give you a chance.”

“Anything” he says, instantly, “ _anything_ you ask for.”

“I am going to Savannah,” she says quietly, “and I intend to remove Captain Flint-and Thomas Hamilton-from that place. Will you come with me?”

He inhales sharply, staring at her.

And she sees it, in his eyes, that moment, where he becomes Long John Silver, when he says, with finality: “You cannot succeed.”

“Is that your answer?” she says, because there’s some part of her that still wants, still waits, still hopes.

“You _will_ not succeed” he repeats, harsher.

She gets up.

“Watch me” she says, and leaves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Silver leaving the island is my version of events, for purposes of this fic. I am aware that canon Silver stays on the island for (unspecified) length of time.  
> 2\. Un-betaed, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> [Cross posted on tumblr](http://drivingsideways33.tumblr.com/post/163876760304)


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